


Ghosts That We Knew

by hismementomori



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adult Language, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 06:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14806128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hismementomori/pseuds/hismementomori
Summary: Requested by anon: If you have time and it’s something you think you can write, I would love to read a one shot where John (older) is saved on a hunt by a female hunter and he quickly falls for her.





	Ghosts That We Knew

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if this is exactly what anon wanted, but it’s what came out. Might make it into a series even though it was a requested one-shot. It has potential, I think.

The sky is twinkling with stars and the moon is high and full, shining down on a warm, summer’s night. You park your truck just outside of the two story Tudor Revival, something right out of a storybook. There’s a wave of childhood nostalgia that washes over you when you step through the iron gate, one that has you remembering a similar home in your neighborhood when you were younger that you promised your sister you’d one day live in. The corner of your lips twist at the memory, but it quickly disappears. 

Your boots crunch the freshly manicured lawn as you head to the backyard, finding what you came here for. The banana tree stood tall and strong, bearing fruit. “You’ve been causing trouble,” you click your tongue, walking around the trunk to try and guestimate what exactly it’s going to take to chop the thing down. 

“You know it’s not the tree that’s been doing all this, right,” you hear a deep rumble come from behind you. You do your best not to jump, but you flinch a little and it’s not gone unnoticed. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” You shine your flashlight towards the man, his hazel eyes sparkled in the shine, their beauty only outweighed by a flash of white teeth.

“I know it’s not the tree.” You turn your flashlight and attention back to the green trunk and hope that your machete will be enough to take it down. “But if I get it out of here, it might help.”

The man walks closer to you, hands in the pockets of his canvas jacket which was out of place in the Arizona weather. It’s army surplus, he’s got heavy duty boots and dirty jeans on, he’s one of you. “Do you know what you’re dealing with?” He’s standing on the other side of the tree, the pair of you look to the top, which towers a few feet above him. 

“Have an idea,” you reply and click off your flashlight, tucking it into your back pocket. Your fingers pop the button of your holster and you pull out your machete. 

He watches you with an amused grinned and you kind of want to slap it off of his handsome face. “I’m sure these people paid a lot of money to import this thing. They won’t be too happy if you chop it down, Paul Bunyan.”

“Well, I’ve tried everything else, I can’t get the damn thing to come after me,” you sigh, your grip tightening around the blade’s handle. 

“The thing’s not stupid. You’re not helpless or a man,” he explains what you already know. “But I am.”

You raise a brow at him, eyes racking over his broad frame and tilt your head, “You don’t look all that helpless to me.” That draws out a full bellied laugh from him, head tossed back and all. “But I guess you’re a man.”

“You guess,” he parrots. “Last time I checked I was, sweetheart.” 

“So you wanna be bait? I dunno,” you suck on your teeth, putting your machete back in its place and step away from the tree.

“I’m not helpless, either,” he adds. “But yeah, I can be bait.” One large hand thrusts toward you and is held out for you to take, “John Winchester.”

You look at the hand for a moment before taking it and give a light squeeze, “Y/N L/N.” He’s all teeth and nods back towards the road. “So, how are you gonna be playing bait, John?”

“Well, lore says, I just need to stick some clothes out to dry at night and she’ll come runnin’,” he leads the way back to your truck and his. You stop between them, exchanging curious glances. He’s the first one to break eye contact and he scrubs a hand over his face. “So, what do you say?”

“I say,” you reply, “that I’m pretty sure the other vics didn’t air dry their laundry, so how do you know the lore is right?”

“One way to find out, right,” he shrugs. “I’m staying at the Moonlit out by the freeway, know where it is?”

“Stayin’ there, too,” you nod. 

“231,” he says, heading to his driver’s side. “Meet you there?” It’s not like you can say no, you’d be heading there anyway. He doesn’t wait for a verbal reply and climbs into the beast of a vehicle and heads off the half-star motel, something flapping in the wind as he goes. 

You don’t move until he’s turning down a block away, still unsure about this stranger. He sounds like he knows what he’s talking about, looks like he can handle himself, but you’ve lost your fiance because of his foolhardy bravery, too. 

Swallowing hard, you finally climb into your truck’s cab and take off towards the freeway. 

You make a quick pit stop for a crappy dinner and supplies, but you eventually find his room and tap on the door with your knuckles. You scan the parking lot as you wait, spotting his truck with what you assume is his shirt hanging off the rack in the back. He’s already setting the bait, but you’re still unsure about it. Most of the murders had been in the suburb, in houses surrounding the banana tree, how was he so sure that it’d come all the way out just for him?

Eventually the door pulls it open and John’s there with a grin and a nod in greeting, stepping aside to let you in. 

Despite the musty smell and awful decor, he keeps his room clean and organized, the case notes neatly arranged on the far wall near the television. “Brain food,” you tell him, passing over the six-pack and jerky you purchased on your way over. He takes it with a soft chuckle and tosses the jerky on the table, but fridges the beer. “You got a lot more on this than me, I’m kinda jealous.” You make your way over to his layout and take it all in.

“Been doing this a while,” he tells you, cracking open one of the bottles and asks if you want one, which you decline. “I only found out how to kill it this morning.”

“Nail to the back of the head,” you nod, turning to see him leaning against the table. “Guess we found the same book.”

His mouth twitches a bit and he settles on a small smile, “Guess you’ve been doing this for a while, too?” You shrug and shove your hands in the back of your pockets, chewing on your bottom lip with your teeth. He senses that you’re uncomfortable and clears his throat, pushing off of the table. “You don’t need to explain, just trying to make conversation.” He joins you at the city map and nurses on the bottle, face twisting in thought.

“You think she’ll show up,” you ask, turning to face the wall of victims. 

“Hope so,” he sighs. “Or else we’re up another vic and out another night of sleep.” 

“So, thought about how we’re gonna get that nail into the back of her head?” You turn slightly to face him, taking in his profile. He’s due for a shave and a haircut, the black mop on his head his wild and the small specks of salt in his peppered beard are showing, but damn if he doesn’t make it work.

He can tell you’re looking, especially when he side eyes you and smiles a little. “Yeah,” he nods to his bag and you head over to take a look. 

“Really,” you snort, pulling out the portal nail gun. 

“Really.” He sets down his beer and joins you, holding out his hand for you to pass it over. “Isn’t that different from a gun, maybe needs a little more accuracy, but it does the trick.” He double checks the battery life before setting it down somewhere were accessible. “And, figured it wouldn’t hurt to add it to my tool collection.” That’s got you smiling wide for the first time that evening. “Hey, she does know how to smile.”

Your brows shoot up and he holds out his hands to soothe any anger sent his way, “What can I say, I have a thing for power tools.”

“Gal after my own heart,” John quips. 

Your smile falters a little and then so does his, “I think you’ve got enough gals to worry about right now, don’t need another.”

He looks you over and nods, heading back to pick up his beer like he needs it now, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” His eyes rest on the small couch and his half eaten Chinese food. “Guess we’ve got time to kill.” He takes a few long strides and flops down in the chair, setting down his drink and picking up his meal. “You eat?”

“Before I came over,” you nod as he flips on the television. 

“You don’t have to stand there all night,” he says, poking at his carton of noodles, “I won’t bite.” You absently lick your lips and join him on the couch, your arms and legs crossed, trying to keep yourself from taking up as much room as possible. “Your head’s going to pop if you keep being that tense.”

Your nose scrunches as you look him over in annoyance and he’s laughing again, deep baritone that you can feel down to your bones. If he didn’t have such handsome features, you’d punch him. “I don’t make it a habit to end up in a strange man’s hotel room, especially when he’s got something after him, so sorry if I’m a little apprehensive.” 

“Well, what if they don’t have a monster on their heels,” John asks playfully, sitting back, shoveling noodles into his mouth with his chopsticks.

“Even then,” you shake your head, forcing yourself to look away from him to the television, trying to get lost in whatever he has on. Infomercials, lovely.

He’s turned back to the screen as well, “Smart girl.” Finally, he falls silent, finishing off both his beer and food, gathering up his trash to toss away. He goes in for a second bottle and offers you one, which you once again decline. You’d like to end the night with a clear mind because you can’t afford to get this guy killed, too.

When he rejoins you, flopping down with his legs spread comfortably and head resting on the back of the couch, he passes you the remote to get you to pick something better than watching a meat dehydrator. You accept it, finally uncurling from around yourself and start flipping through the limited channels the motel offered. You settle on Golden Girls and John huffs a laugh next to you. “You gave me the power.”

“Yes, I did.” He doesn’t seem too upset about it, just relaxes next to you like it’s another night for him. 

The walls of the motel must be paper thin because you can hear the couple next door, you can’t make out any words, just the murmur of their voices and them walking around. If you focus hard enough, you can ignore them, but that gets you thinking that if this thing comes bursting into John’s room, the entire building is going to hear it. 

John must be thinking the same thing because he’s sitting up a little and looking behind him at the wall, brows pinched. He frowns as someone practically slams closed the bathroom door and he turns to you with a curious tilt of his head. 

“Still think your plan is a good idea,” you ask with a quirk of your lips.

He sits back and drags from his bottle, “Never said it was a good idea, but it’s the only one I’ve got right now.” It’s better than you cutting down the tree and hauling it off, so you shut your trap and turn back to the show. 

You’re three episodes in when you feel your eyes start getting heavy. You’ve pulled a lot of late nights and it’s starting to catch up with you. When your head luls to the side, you jerk up and stretch out your limbs. From the snores coming next to you, you’re not the only who’s exhausted. You sneak a peek at the man, he’s slack jawed and completely limp, the worried lines on his face are gone. 

According to your watch it’s near three in the morning and you’ve received no signs that the thing is coming, at least not for John. You elbow the man awake and he groans, rubbing his face in his hands. “Don’t think you’re gonna see your lady tonight,” you yawn.

He looks at his own watch and nods, “Think you might be right.” He gets up and starts cleaning up his mess, rinsing out the empty bottles, tossing everything in the trash can. “You crashing here tonight?”

The question catches you by surprise, “Hadn’t planned on it.”

“So you’re gonna leave me to get eaten by the ghost,” he asks, wiping his hands dry. Your mouth drops open and shuts with a snap because he’s laughing again. “I’m just teasing you,” he winks. “Go on, get some rest.”

You don’t stop the tug of your lips when you get up, stretching good and proper. His gaze burns into you, but that you ignore. “Here,” you grab a spare piece of paper and write down your name and cell numbers. “It’s not gonna help much if she comes around and eats your insides, but at least if you last through the night, we can meet up later.”

“Your concern is touching,” John grins, but joins you where you stand. 

He reaches for the paper, but you keep it firm in your hand, making sure those pretty hazel eyes are locked on yours. “Don’t get me wrong, John, I am concerned. I planned on going at this alone, didn’t expect to be roped up with anyone.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “that definitely sounds concerned.” You finally release the paper and he takes it with a half grin. “You don’t play well with others, do you?”

“Do you,” you shoot back and his face falls for a moment. “I don’t have a partner for a reason, so it’s no offense to you. But, now we’re working together, let’s just make sure to leave the job in one piece.”

He narrows his eyes down at you, licking at his bottom lip before he agrees, “Alright. We agreeing to play nice, then?” You give him your best smile and he accepts it. “Okay, now get out of my room.”

“You’re a man of hospitality, I see,” you shake your head and he walks you to the door. “Don’t die, alright?”

He pulls open the door for you and you slip by, “I’ll try my best not to.” You finish exchanging good nights and you head off to your room, silently praying that he makes it through the night.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, but after a fifth of Jack and a warm shower, you pass out until the sun comes up. You get a call first thing, it’s John, telling you that he’s alive and he’s going to have breakfast and if you’re hungry, you’re welcome to join him. You tell him you’ll think about it and get ready for the day, but he’s waiting at his truck when you exit your room. “You assuming I’m gonna join you,” you greet him. 

“Well, I wasn’t holding my breath,” he replies with a tilt of his head towards his truck. “Found a place with decent pancakes.” Your stomach growls loud enough for him to hear it and he’s already got his door open and one foot inside, so you give in and round the truck. 

Breakfast comes with light conversation, he talks about the case and the one before. You indulge him and tell him of your last. Nothing too personal gets shared and you’re okay with that. He doesn’t know if you have a scanner, but he tells you no deaths have been reported, so he wants to drive by the banana tree house again, let his scent get out there and hopefully lure it. You don’t like the idea and you don’t have to vocalize for him to know, but he’s the driver, you can’t protest.

You sit curled up in the passenger seat just as you did on the couch the night before, looking at anything other than the man next to you. “We spent the night together and you’re still coiled like a spring,” he grins, one hand on the wheel, the other resting in the open window.

“We sat next to each other on a shitty couch and you fell asleep,” you corrected.

“So, it’s a complicated relationship.” He turns to you when you reach a red light and you give him an exaggerated roll of your eyes. “I think you’re taking this too seriously.”

“Shouldn’t you? You’re the one that wants to be on the menu,” you shake your head and look at him briefly. 

His face straightens and the grip on the wheel is a little tighter. “I guess you’re right,” he sighs and hits the gas when the light changes. You drive through the neighborhood, circling the block several times to make sure that John’s scent gets caught in the wind.

“You know, we should just ask the owners if we can stay at their place, hang your shirts all over that tree and it’ll come,” you suggest. Why the thing hasn’t attacked the Lindemanns already, you can’t figure that out. 

“What makes you so sure,” John argues. 

“Well, what we’re doing now doesn’t seem like it worked the first time,” you point out. “Circle back, go talk to them.” 

He looks at you with a side glance and that small grin is on his face again, “Who made you boss?”

“Me.” You mirror his smirk and hold yourself up a little more. He slows the truck down until it’s stopped in the middle of the residential street and twist to look at you properly. 

“Gotta say, I do like when a woman takes charge,” he laughs and takes the three-point turn to head to the tree owner’s house. “Hope you got your badge.” When you reach into your pocket, you pull out the wallet and flash it for him. “Good girl.”

You pull up minutes later to find both cars home. Curious, at least regarding the husband. John takes the lead and knocks on the door, you both stand outside for a few minutes and hear nothing inside. He knocks again, louder, announcing yourself as the FBI and again, nothing. 

A frown is shared between you and you both pull out your guns. John tries the handle and it’s locked. There’s no time to pick it, so he lifts one big, booted foot and kicks the door open. He leads the charge, checking his corners, you follow in, doing the same. You clear the first floor and head up the second, nothing. “Basement,” he tells you and you’re the first down the steps to look for the door. It’s padlocked. You hear voices and they’re raised, Mr. Lindemann yelling at his wife.

John puts a finger to his lips and quickly picks the lock and carefully opens the door. He heads down first, light on his feet despite how large of a man he is. “...now there are hunters after you, do you understand what that means?”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she replies, voice thick with tears. 

“They were here last night,” he yells, “she was going to cut down your tree!”

The woman sobs harder and screams another, “I know! I’m sorry!”

“Sorry’s not good enough,” he snaps. “They’re can kill you!”

“What in the hell is going on,” John interrupts them, your guns trained on the pair. They look up, both shocked to see you there and the man squares up, putting himself in front of his wife. 

“Look,” he starts, holding up his hands in compliance, “it’s not her fault that she is what she is.” You and John share a quick look, but your guns are steady. “She’s harmless.” John scoffs. “Semi-harmless.”

“She’s killed five people in a month,” you remind him, “ripped out their stomachs and had a barbeque.”

Lindemann winces, “She’s hungry.”

“She’s a monster,” you reply immediately. The wife sobs louder now and you take your eyes off of the guy to eye her up. She’s beautiful with long black hair, flawless porcelain skin, and the way her sundress fit, most likely the body of a supermodel. She was perfect, but almost too. “You love her.”

“Look, you don’t have to approve,” he starts, but John doesn’t let him get too far.

“Good, ‘cause we don’t. She’s killed people,” John snarls. “We need to put her down.”

Lindemann steps back, hands still out in front of him and moves next to his wife, “I’m afraid I can’t let that happen.” 

Everything happens in seconds, Lindemann pulls out the nail from his wife’s neck, John shoots Lindemann in the head. The once beautiful Mrs. Lindemann transforms into a rotten, bloody corpse and she shrills, lunging at the pair of you. You fire shots into her, but she tosses you aside like a ragdoll and you slam into the wall before collapsing into the ground, the air knocked out of you.

John pumps five solid rounds into her, but she’s resilient. She grabs him by the neck and slams him into the ground with one hand, the other racking down his chest, tearing his shirt along with his skin. He howls and grabs at her, trying to break free, but he’s running out of air. “Y/N,” he gasps with what little he has left in him.

You slowly get up and look for nail or anything that could pass for it and scramble to the far edge of the basement. You dig into the toolbox as she rips her nails across John’s stomach, a whole new string of curses and screams escape him. 

Long screws in hand, you run over and plunge one into the hole at the nap of her neck. She instantly releases her hold on John and he gasps for air, a bloody, panting mess, Mrs. Lindemann on her knees in front of him. “I’m sorry,” you tell her as you place the second nail at the apex of her head and hammer it in.

John makes you take care of the bodies first, burning and burying both near the tree out back. When you find him, he’s got his flannel off and pressing against his wounds. “You look like shit,” you sigh, carefully helping him up and to his truck. 

“Well, at least you’re pretty enough for the both of us,” he says, a weak smile on his face. He’s lost a fair amount of blood, if you don’t clean and cover him up proper soon, he might need to go to the hospital.

You help him rest against the truck bed as you open the door, “Save the flirting for when you’re not bleeding.” He gives you the biggest grin and you help him get settled in, forgoing the seatbelt. “Do you trust me driving this thing?”

“Darlin’, I trust you with my life,” he sighs and you shut the door in his face. 

When you get to his room, you help him out of shirt with some grunting on his part. “Stop being a baby,” you playfully scold and look through his first aid kit for what you need. He’s sitting on the couch with you between his legs on the ground, that damn grin on his face once more. “And stop being a dirty old man.”

“Can’t be both, sweetheart,” he tells you and you pour the peroxide onto his cuts in retaliation. He grits his teeth and hisses, fists clenched at his sides, but he takes it. “Gently,” he pleads, but you clean each cut as he requested.

“This is what you wanted,” you tell him as you cut up the medical tape. “Wanted to be bait, you got hurt.” 

He’s doing his best to keep his mind away from the pain, just stares at you with those big hazel eyes and lifts a shaky hand to tuck some of your hair behind your ear, “But you were there to save me.”

“Lucky for you then,” you freeze at his touch, but it’s only for a second. 

John freezes when you do and cringes, “Did I overstep?” 

You look up from your work and shake your head, “No, you didn’t.” You finish cutting the tape and start placing the gaze. “It’s been a while since I’ve flirted back,” you admit, “I’m just a little rusty.”

“Well, we can fix that,” he laughs with a grimace. 

“Stop,” you slap his thigh, “you’ve lost enough blood, don’t go moving around.”

John surrenders with a, “Yes, ma’am,” and lets you finish up without anymore fuss. All taped up and clean, you get up off your knees, but he grabs your hand before you can move too far away and squeezes it. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” you squeeze him back and pull away to clean up the mess you made, “you’re welcome.”


End file.
